


that fire in my soul

by hlundqvists



Series: taking care of the boys [6]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angry Sex, Choking, J.T. has anger issues okay that's the plot here, M/M, New York Rangers, Slapping, Spanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-05-27 04:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6269485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hlundqvists/pseuds/hlundqvists
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Hank’s anger never lasts. J.T.’s never seems to end.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ifonlynotnever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifonlynotnever/gifts).



> first and foremost, i gotta give credit to ras for this piece existing. she planted the seeds for the idea and gave the water needed for it to grow. this is all for her.
> 
> secondly, this is kind of different from the other works in this series. there's a lot of focus on anger in this one, so if that's something that you aren't comfortable with, please skip over this one!
> 
> there are two more chapters planned for this. i hope to have them posted soon.
> 
> third, i can't believe how LONG it's been since i finished something for this series. i promise you all that i have A LOT of stuff planned still. currently, i have five other WIPs set in this universe that i'm working on slowly and steadily. thank you for all your patience!!
> 
> lastly, thank you to lauren for looking this over for me. 
> 
> title taken from the song 'me, myself, and i' by g-eazy because it's been stuck in my head and that line just seems to fit for this.

J.T. was born with a raging fire in his veins.

It’s the kind of fire that can never truly be quenched. A rolling, endless wave of anger that is always simmering just below his skin, making him buzz and itch. It’s always there, tightening in his chest, felt in every inch of his body from his head to his fingertips. 

Sometimes all he needs is to be on the ice to help alleviate that burning pressure in his chest. The fast pace of the game, being checked into the boards, the jaw-shaking hits of body against body, and the bruises that purple his skin; sometimes that’s all he needs to feel in control of himself again, to feel control over that fire inside him.

But sometimes the perfect hit into the boards only serves to grow the fire, to heat that anger more. Those are usually the nights that it boils over into a fight. His fist colliding with a solid jaw, his knuckles coming away sore and aching and sometimes bloody; it helps for a while. 

He’ll sit in the penalty box and breathe and feel the loosening of the pressure in his chest. It’s good, it helps, but then he’s back on the bench and guys are complimenting him on the fight, telling him he’s good at keeping calm and being calculated when he fights and that-- that brings the pressure back, his chest getting tight again, fingertips itching as the fire burns away at him from the inside out.

Those are the nights that J.T. can feel Hank’s eyes on him the most.

\--------

He doesn’t always go to Hank on those nights. It’s not exactly easy to submit to Hank when J.T. is the only one with a rage burning under his skin. But, the nights when Hank leaves the ice with anger bristling up his spine and a cold, hard glint in his eyes after a bad loss; those are the times when it becomes so much easier to drop down to his knees in front of Hank.

Hank’s rage fuels J.T.’s rage. He gets caught up in that tension, in Hank’s emotions; when Hank is furious, J.T. is furious, too.

There’s no hesitation on J.T.’s part with approaching Hank when he’s angry. Others try to give Hank his space when the tightness of his jaw can be seen from across the room. J.T. doesn’t care about that and he’s come to learn that Hank doesn’t care either; this is something that sets J.T. apart from the other boys, makes him special in a way. Besides Marc, J.T. is the only one who ever gets to truly experience the rawness of Hank’s anger being channeled into biting kisses that break skin.

J.T. can’t help but wonder if Marc has ever felt the absolute magnitude of Hank’s anger as it’s turned into teeth and nails digging into skin. He wonders, as Hank’s teeth break the skin of his bottom lip to draw blood and a low hiss, if Marc likes this kind of treatment and if Hank can actually bring himself to hurt someone he loves as much as he loves Marc.

(J.T. doesn’t think so, at first, but then he sees familiar purpling bruises on Marc’s back after they get eliminated by Tampa. Marc catches his gaze and holds it steadily before giving a small nod. J.T. exhales and tries not to think much on it.)

\--------

Hank’s fury is always so raw and vicious, but it doesn’t last the way J.T.’s does; so when J.T. gets to taste that anger on Hank’s lips, he does his best to memorize every little detail to hold onto for when he needs it.

He enjoys the nights when Hank seems unable to control himself best.

Shitty losses will always leave a bitter taste in anyone’s mouth, but J.T. doesn’t think on it when he’s getting slammed up against a wall so hard that he swears he feels his lungs rattle inside his chest.

Hank is seething, and J.T. feels it violently. He feels it in the way Hank’s teeth dig hard into the muscle between his shoulder and neck, making him cry out harshly and dig his own nails against Hank’s sides. The answering groan and harder bite from Hank only encourages J.T. and he gives into the impulses filling his body.

He bites and lashes out, soaking in the sting of Hank’s nails dragging down against his chest, leaving lines of bright red behind. It only makes his hips buck forward when Hank presses his fingers in hard and breaks skin, a noise of mixed pain and pleasure escaping. Hank doesn’t stop; not like he did the first time they did this and he wasn’t sure of J.T.’s limits.

J.T. gasps and pulls on Hank’s hair, yanks him up for a kiss that is pure aggression; teeth digging into lips, skin breaking, the metallic taste of blood spreading over J.T.’s tongue as he licks over Hank’s bottom lip.

He feels Hank _everywhere_. It’s chaotic, hard to keep track of; hands squeezing his cock tightly, nails digging over his chest, a slap connecting hard with his jaw and making his face _ache_. 

It’s so good, it’s great, it’s amazing, the way Hank shoves him down and fucks him harder than he’s ever been fucked, stealing his breath and pushing dark bruises into his hips, making him groan and squirm and feel so hot. It’s so _good_ and it should be enough, it should be more than enough to calm the fire inside his chest, but when he comes as Hank jerks his cock roughly, there’s no sense of calm inside him.

It was so _good_ , but it wasn’t enough, and when Hank finally comes and lays down next to J.T., there’s a sense of calmness in his expression that J.T. envies.

Hank’s anger never lasts. J.T.’s never seems to end.

\--------

J.T. needs more, but he doesn’t know how to say it. He doesn’t know _why_ he needs more, which only serves to frustrate him more.

He’s on his elbows and knees, grunting with every hard blow Hank lands across his ass. It stings, and he wants more. He needs more. It’s just not enough to cool the burning in his chest. He whimpers and squirms as Hank smacks him harder, palm connecting with J.T.’s balls, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain up his spine.

He curls his fingers into the sheets, jaw clenched tight as he grunts, “More, harder, fucking _do it harder, Hank_.”

Hank does the best he can, smacking J.T. harder and harder with each blow, red marks blossoming over J.T.’s ass and thighs. It hurts to move, but J.T. doesn’t care. He needs more, so much more. He squirms, high-pitched whines escaping him, trying to get _more_.

It’s not enough. Every blow landing against his skin just isn’t enough. He wants to be pinned down in a way Hank could never manage, he wants to fight hard and be fought in return, but Hank can’t give him that, especially when Hank _isn’t angry_.

Hank tries and part of J.T. is grateful to have that, maybe even loves Hank for it. But he’s overwhelmed with so much frustration, so much anger, and he needs more. The stinging blows of Hank’s hand aren’t enough, and J.T. knows that Hank is aware of it. They’ve done this enough by now that Hank can read the difference in the tremors overtaking J.T.’s body.

Hank’s hands disappear and J.T. almost cries out in frustration, but then there’s a hand wrapping around his cock, squeezing tight as teeth bite at J.T.’s earlobe and that combined with the extra hard slap to the burning skin at the top of his thighs is almost enough to make him come. 

J.T. whines, pushing back against Hank, trying to get more, to be pinned down the way he needs, but it’s still not enough because Hank isn’t big enough or strong enough to really overwhelm J.T. the way he’s seeking. 

“You know,” Hank’s voice is low, teeth still scraping against the shell of J.T.’s ear, thumb pressing hard to the slit of J.T.’s cock, “Kreids could probably choke you out with his thighs.”

J.T. barely manages to hold back his sob as he comes with that mental image in his head.

\--------

Hank arranges everything because, well, of course he does. He’s _Hank_ and J.T. is one of his boys.

It isn’t difficult to set up, not when Chris is someone who is always so willing to help. J.T. doesn’t know if Chris talked to Cam about this, but frankly, J.T. doesn’t care.

He _really_ doesn’t care when he lets Chris into his apartment and before he can blink, Chris has him pinned up against the wall, hand around his throat, squeezing lightly. J.T. relaxes and tenses up all at once, his hands fisting in the front of Chris’ shirt, pulling hard enough to stretch the fabric out and possibly tear it.

Chris tightens his hand around J.T.’s throat, thumb pressing to the underside of his jaw. The pressure is enough to make breathing feel like a struggle and J.T. _loves_ it. He gasps for air, clawing at Chris’ shirt, voice coming out as a harsh whisper, “Is that the best you’ve got?”

Chris grins and steps closer, pinning J.T. against the wall with his hips. It’s so close to what J.T.’s been needing.

“J.T., man, you’ve got no idea. I’m going to make you _cry_.”

**

Chris is….. fuck, he’s everything that J.T. has been needing. He’s not afraid to use his strength against J.T. and doesn’t hold back with the force of his hits to J.T.’s skin.

He’s so _big_ and _strong_ and he’s using his entire body to pin J.T. down on the bed and J.T. can barely squirm underneath him and it’s so fucking perfect. J.T.’s cock is so hard and it _hurts_ and Chris doesn’t seem to care. 

“Fuck, _fuck_ , you asshole, more, I need more, I--”

J.T.’s words get cut off as Chris curls a hand tight around his throat, choking off his air supply, pressing him down harder against the bed.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” the words are almost a growl from Chris, stirring more rage to burn inside J.T.’s chest. “God, I wanna take you apart.”

J.T. can’t breathe, the grip of Chris’ hand around his throat is on the right side of _too much_ and it’s making his lungs burn and his cock only get harder. He rocks his hips up, trying to dislodge Chris, but he can’t, he can’t move Chris off him. Chris is _too strong_ and J.T. can fight all he wants, can squirm and lash out and smack Chris as much as he wants, but he can’t get Chris off him. And that’s…. it’s so perfect. J.T. needs this, wants this. This is what he’s been seeking; a stronger force to match his anger, to beat him down and hold him steady. 

And just when it’s almost too much, just when J.T.’s vision starts to blur, that’s when Chris lets go and J.T. barely has time to gasp for air to refill his lungs because Chris is hauling him over, turning him onto his stomach and shoving him back down against the bed, pushing his head against the pillows and holding it there.

There’s no time to adjust to the new position. Chris doesn’t hesitate in bringing his hand down, slapping J.T.’s ass over and over, alternating between left and right cheek with each hit. It burns quickly, each slap more relentless than the last and J.T. whines into the pillows, unable to lift his head against the strength of Chris’ hand holding him down.

He barely hears Chris’ voice over the sound of smacks filling the air, almost misses the sweetness mixed in with the biting tone as Chris says, “Gonna bruise you up, babe. I’ll make it so good, I promise.”

J.T. loses himself in the pain that follows.

He gets caught up in the stinging, burning sensation as Chris hits him harder and harder _and harder_. He’s pinned down in all the right ways and breathing is so difficult and he knows his skin must be redder than it’s ever been and it’s just _so much_ , it’s so much more than he’s ever experienced and it’s everything he needs.

Then, Chris lets go of his head and is dragging nails down along J.T.’s spine, scraping at skin and making J.T. whimper. Chris laughs softly, and somehow between the next few slaps to J.T.’s ass, he’s lubed up his fingers and presses two inside inside J.T. without warning. 

J.T. cries out from the sudden stretch, the lube just barely enough to keep it from hurting, and before he can stop himself, he’s moving his hips, fucking himself on Chris’ fingers and begging for more.

“Chris, _Chris_ , it’s-- _please_.”

He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, his skin is burning, his cock is so hard and aching, and everything _hurts_ and he doesn’t feel angry, he just feels fire; fire that is threatening to consume him and burn him alive. He keeps begging, quiet pleas falling from his lips, and Chris keeps giving. 

Chris moves his fingers faster, fucking him harder, still delivering slap after slap to J.T.’s ass, nails digging against J.T.’s hips; he’s going to have bruises and scratches for days and that’s what he wants, he wants the reminders of this carved into his flesh, he never wants to forget. 

It’s all reaching the point of too much and J.T. doesn’t-- He feels a heated wetness on his cheeks and when he licks his lips, all he tastes is bitterness and it hits him that he’s _crying_ , he’s crying and begging because everything feels too good, it’s everything he’s needed and never thought he’d have and Chris’ voice is right there against his ear, firm and strong, telling him to come, to let go, and J.T. listens.

The fire burns so, so bright and hot inside of him and J.T. thinks he might die. He sobs as he comes, burying his face against the pillows as his entire body shakes, the fire calming inside his chest as a sense of calm and coolness overtakes him.

He can’t stop shaking, can’t move, and he whimpers as he hears Chris’ groan as he strokes himself, murmuring how pretty and red J.T.’s ass is right before he comes against J.T.’s thighs.

J.T. collapses, breathing shakily, eyes closed tight as he keeps his face against the pillows.

There’s a peacefulness that overtakes his body as he lays there, an emotion that he’s never felt before. He barely feels it as Chris cleans him up gently and applies soothing ointment to his skin. He doesn’t want to move and Chris doesn’t make him.

He does feel the kiss the Chris presses to his neck before he’s drifting off to sleep. That light pressure of lips against his skin follows him in his dreams.

\--------

Hank watches J.T. carefully in the locker room at practice two days later. He can feel Hank’s gaze on him as he strips out of his clothes and it’s not a surprise to him when Hank stands up and walks over to him, reaching out to touch the scratches and bruises covering his back.

He stays still, letting Hank touch, watching Hank’s expression. 

Hank’s fingers still against one particular bruise on J.T.’s hip. J.T. waits, then Hank presses down hard on the bruise. The pressure makes J.T. hiss and that…. that makes J.T. smile. 

Hank’s lips curl into a small smile and he presses down on the bruise once more time, watching as J.T. shudders pleasantly and smiles wider.

“I’m good, Hank. Kreids-- He did real good.”

Hank leans in, kissing J.T. lightly, murmuring against his lips, “I’m proud of you both.”

J.T. nips hard at Hank’s bottom lip before he steps away, then starts pulling his gear on, glancing up to catch Chris’ gaze across the locker room.

Chris smiles knowingly and J.T. finds himself smiling back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is shorter than the first one, but it achieves what i was aiming for with it. which is a contrasting comparison of j.t. when he's with hank vs when he's with chris.
> 
> there is still quite a bit left that i have planned for the third and final (maybe?) chapter of this.
> 
> thanks to lauren for looking at this and reassuring me that it doesn't belong in a garbage can.
> 
> ras, i hope you still like this.

Bruises are bruises. It’s as simple as that. Yet, J.T. can’t help but focus on the differences in the bruises left on his skin. He can tell which ones came from Hank’s fingers and which ones came from Chris’. The marks look the same, the same distorted swirl of darkened colors blossoming against his hips, all scattered together over the cuts of his hipbones to mimic the pattern of fingers that had previously been pressing into his skin.

And still, even though the purples and blues look the same, J.T. knows which ones are from who.

Chris leaves him with bruises that still sting with the lightest touch. Hank’s bruises last longer, but as the days pass, J.T. has to press down harder to make them hurt again.

It’s funny, J.T. thinks, how the bruises perfectly reflect the people who left them.

\---------

Hank always fucks J.T. good. It doesn’t matter if it’s with his fingers or his cock or a toy of some kind; it’s always good and J.T. always comes. Hank bruises him with tight grips on his hips and thighs. He’ll hit J.T., too. Hard smacks across his jaw that leave him gasping and aching, pining for more. There are times when J.T. curses and whines until Hank brings out the nipple clamps he bought specifically for J.T., and the resulting throbbing ache in his nipples soothes him while Hank bites his skin and jerks him off roughly.

It always feels good, even when it’s not enough to quench the anger that may be bubbling in J.T.’s chest. Hank has good hands that know how to touch, how to bruise. J.T. lives for the bruises in the bedroom, for broken skin and the taste of blood during kisses. Hank gives J.T. those things when he can, always doing his best to make J.T. feel as good as he possibly can.

But, as good as Hank’s hands are at bruising, they also hold the ability to _heal_ and that’s something J.T. almost resents.

He’s always somewhat pliant after he comes; face pressed to the pillows, breathing hard, eyes closed as he focuses on the resonating throbbing and stinging pains of his body. There’s a minute or two where Hank doesn’t touch him, and J.T. has to use that time to brace himself for the touches he doesn’t want but lets Hank have because he owes it to Hank. He knows it’s something that Hank _needs_. 

Hank cleans him up carefully. A gentle touch of a cool washcloth over J.T.’s ass and thighs always makes his fingers twitch. The application of soothing ointment to any cuts makes his skin crawl. It never feels good, but he knows it’s necessary. Hank’s fingers sometimes linger for a minute too long, and J.T. feels overwhelmed with the urge to crawl out of his own skin. There’s too much tenderness in Hank’s touch. J.T. doesn’t want that.

He never wants to be held in the aftermath, that’s something that has never changed. He’s never been a fan of it. It never makes him feel good or whole to have someone else blanketing his body after he’s come. All it does is make him feel overheated and trapped. He needs distance between his body and whoever is in bed with him.

Hank learned that quickly about J.T. but sometimes, he’ll still ask after difficult sessions. A quiet, “Are you sure?”, will reach J.T.’s ears, the question asked so softly with underlying _care_ in the tone. It always makes J.T. clench his jaw, and he has to remind himself to breathe and stay calm, to not snap at Hank for asking because Hank is just doing what he always does; looking out for J.T.

He knows Hank is used to others being clingy in the aftermath, the way stereotypes call for submissives to behave. _Submissive_. J.T.’s always hated that word. He doesn’t like being called a sub. It’s not who he is. Not really. Hank is aware of J.T.’s dislike of the word, even though they’ve never discussed it before. It doesn’t stop Hank from sometimes crossing the line and gently pushing with his words of care, asking J.T. if he needs anything else. 

Hank is used to Marc clinging to him like an octopus every single night. He’s used to Jesper and Derick kneeling, not wanting to leave their knees or Hank’s side. He’s used to having to give more, so sometimes, he asks J.T. if he needs more; if J.T. needs more ointment, if he wants help showering, if he wants to be held. Because maybe, _maybe_ , J.T. actually does need more.

J.T. never needs more. He never will.

All he needs are for the bruises to last. He only needs the reminders, red and dark, against his skin.

\---------

Chris always fucks J.T. hard and rough, with no abandon. He doesn’t hold back his strength when he has J.T. pinned down underneath him. Chris _hurts_ him, and hurts him good.

There’s pain that comes with Chris’ touches; systematic pain that makes J.T.’s skin sting and burn. Quick hits of a belt, nails digging into skin, red lines scratched down J.T.’s chest. It all adds up to the burning pain he’s constantly seeking. He always finds it at the end of Chris’ fingertips. 

Chris fucks J.T. with three fingers, a minimal amount of lube used, and chokes him hard, not letting him catch his breath. It’s just what J.T. needs after a shitty night. Somehow, Chris always seems to know exactly what J.T. needs from him without ever asking. J.T. never lets himself spend too much time thinking about that or what it means that Chris has learned his needs so quickly, that Chris understands him in this way. He doesn’t have time for what that implies, so he ignores it.

He ignores it all and focuses on the stretch of Chris’ fingers in his ass, the pressure of Chris’ hand around his throat, the sting of bruises on his hips. He loses himself in the seemingly reckless yet calculated way Chris uses the strength of his entire body to pin J.T. down, making him squirm and fight. Chris never gives any ground. J.T. is always entirely trapped beneath him, unable to fight him off, and it’s always so good; always enough to produce tears that spill bitterly over J.T.’s cheeks. 

Chris is the only one who can make J.T. cry. Sometimes, Chris laughs when J.T. cries, and sometimes he licks the traces of salt off J.T.’s cheeks. J.T. usually comes at that point with a curse on his lips, his entire body overheating before cooling.

Chris always does the bare minimum when it comes to cleaning J.T. up. He’ll wipe the come off J.T.’s skin before getting the blankets bundled tightly around J.T., but that’s it. He keeps space between their bodies, laying down with room to spare between them. Some nights, depending on how the most recent game went, Chris will reach out to hook his pinky with J.T.’s and that…… J.T. can deal with that. Again, he ignores the implications of the action and his acceptance of it and what it means. He doesn’t have _time_ for the tightening in his chest - a tightening that’s unfamiliar because it’s not anger - that accompanies the way Chris takes care of him. He has no time for any of that.

He hooks his pinky with Chris’ and listens to their breathing, listens as they both come down off the high from sex. Chris never pushes, never seems worried that J.T. needs something else. He just lays down, space between himself and J.T., and falls asleep with his pinky curled around J.T.’s.

J.T. never watches Chris sleep. That, after everything else, feels far too personal. Instead, he pushes his fingers against the fresh bruises Chris left on his skin and falls asleep with that stinging pain grounding him.


End file.
